PTSD
by Spatz
Summary: a Spot story taking place during World war one... Jack makes an apearance


I sit in my tent sipping my black coffee, black partly because of my acquired taste for it but mainly because of the lack of cream and sugar. One moment I am enjoying this cup of coffee and then my mind wanders to the fourteen shots barely missing me today. Fourteen. Then I think, damn that's luck, you may think that at least one of those fourteen would have hit someplace on my body. And yet here I am, wasting some more time before I get sent back out there to avoid getting killed off for a few more hours, until eventually I'm not quick enough, or one guy is really on, and then I'm out for good. And I'll be sitting there dying, yelling my last words for no one to remember, and I'll think to myself, was it really worth it? Should I have just saved myself some time and gotten shot before? But it's just my luck if I don't get shot, because then I'll have to go home. I'll become one of those men you see walking around talking about the war until you think their jaws will fall off, but surprisingly they don't, fall off that is, so you just have to sit there and listen until you wish they were dead. And upon this thought you fell guilty because you realize they really could have died, and I bet you'd want to talk to them then, and you wouldn't be able to because they would be dead. So then you don't know what the hell to think and you've lost the conversation completely so there is no chance of changing the subject with a swift transition, so all you can do is nod you're head. And I'll probably end up with PTSD or something like that, or at least a slight case or war neurosis. And if I don't people will think I'm heartless and that I like seeing people die, in which case they'll diagnose me with something else, and then I wont be any better off then I would have been if I had had war neurosis. What makes matters even worse is that in order to be diagnosed I'd have to talk to some kind of doctor. And I hate talking to those people because they always ask what you are feeling, and I'm never feeling anything. But if I tell them that they will say it is on account of the fighting and everything I've been through and then they'll write something that I cant pronounce on my record and I'll be stuck with it for life. Then I'll tell the guy that even before the war I had trouble expressing my feelings, but he'll have already documented my problem, and no one listens to crazy people.  
  
I hear them coming to get me to go back. But I don't want to go back to those damn trenches, so I'm hiding in here until they eventually find me. God damn, I haven't even finished my cup of coffee yet. It's not that I'm scared, because I've never been scared in my life and just because people are shooting at me doesn't mean I have to go around changing my morals. They'll probably find me before I finish the last drop in this cup, and I'll beg them for one more second to get that drop, but they'll be pushing and yelling and they'll cause so much commotion that I'll get flustered and forget the whole thing and leave my mug on the table, still holding that drop of coffee. And I'll be out in the trenches wishing I could know what the drop would have tasted like, and I'll promise myself to find out if I ever get back to that damn tent.  
  
They swing open the door and I'm about to get up in protest but they sit me down and now I'm confused. They give me a letter, a letter that was apparently written to me, one I probably won't respond to because those people just tamper with the mail anyway, and a hundred fifty sick soldiers will have read and censored it before it ever gets to its destination, which by the way, is a horrible way to treat the sick men that are supposed to be healing in order to fight for their country. And by the time my response gets to its destination it will have been so altered that I wouldn't even recognize what was in it, and the person to whom I wrote would get a skewed impression of my condition, which may or may not be better than them receiving my original letter.  
  
But this letter didn't need a response.  
  
Conlon, You won't believe some of the crazy shit I've seen. But I'm guessing you have to since it's really all the same. I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything, I'm just saying hell, what has happened to us? You know I'm in the hospital now with an unidentifiable problem, and I'm not sure if that is good or bad, I don't know how to interpret news anymore, half the time I don't even listen. Well listen, I was thinking about things, and I'd like it if after this whole thing blows over you and I go have a cup of coffee at some café or something. I mean it. I really miss hearing you complain all the damn time. Hell, I'll even pay for your cheap ass, if you don't mind my chatter. I have a lot to say to you, I never knew what it would be like to not have my best friend around. I didn't mean that to come out so queer but who gives a shit, I'm lying here with frail limbs and an unidentifiable disease and I don't care anymore.  
  
Francis Jack Kelly  
I must have been smiling because they told me not to get too excited. They told me to sit down, which I thought I already was but I must have gotten antsy in the midst of the letter and stood up or something. I looked at them and their stern faces and I was so confused that I thought I was the one with the unidentifiable disease. I was trying so hard to listen but I thought I just heard them say that Jack died, and I know that couldn't be right, because he was the strongest out of all of us. And I was trying to make sense of their words when I realized that this was probably one of those nightmares that makes you think about things you'd never want to happen ever, and you wake up all sweaty and cold and you don't understand how you can be both sweating and cold at the same time, but somehow you are and if anyone asked you wouldn't know what to tell them except that you had a bad dream. And then they'd look at you like you were a wimp and you'd feel stupid about it, even though it was truly scary. I figured it had to be one of those dreams, until I felt the warmth of the tear lingering on my cheek, and the touch of the hand that attempted to offer comfort. And the realization that if I didn't have PTSD before I most defiantly had it now, and there was no curing that because they don't even fully know what it is yet.  
A/N: on my computer the Francis is crossed out. It is supposed to be like his loss of identity and true character, but it doesn't work like that for this test but that is what it is supposed to be. There it is I hope you like it, and please review!! 


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